


Cracks

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Depression, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Rogue meets Skiadrum, locks his own red eyes with the rainbow iridescence of the other’s, he thinks he’ll never be alone again. He is almost unsurprised when the accident happens." Rogue and Sting meet through tragedy, and then they experience serendipity together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks

Rogue doesn’t do well alone.

He’s always been shy, quiet and reserved to the point of seeming cold and distant to those around him. When he was very young, he left a trail of silence in his wake, other children falling quiet and just watching until he moved back out of earshot. After the dragonrider came for him, the silence turned into whispers, murmurs of “So  _that’s_  why” and “They’re not the same as us, you know” well before he’s far enough away to miss them and loaded with an awed tone that makes him far more uncomfortable than the silence ever did. He doesn’t know how to handle himself alone, but he’s far worse at interacting with others, and at least solitude offers the comfort of familiarity to him.

Then he meets Skiadrum, locks his own red eyes with the rainbow iridescence of the other’s, and for a while he thinks he’ll never be alone again. There’s comfort to the resonant purr in his head, every awkward space in his thoughts filled as if by a puzzle piece that was always meant to be there, and no one chastises him or looks at him askance when he goes and stays silent for hours on end. Everyone understands without asking, without Rogue trying to form words around the slippery framework of emotions that rush under his skin at the faintest sleepy whimper from Skiadrum. The older riders look fond with nostalgia when he bumps them because he’s not paying attention to his surroundings for the murmur in his head, and the new ones are just as bad as he is. It is an experience Rogue long ago gave up on, to be within this easy camaraderie of understanding instead of on the outside, and it is more a comfort than he ever expected it could be, more than he ever expected he could hope for.

He is almost unsurprised when the accident happens.

It’s not even during Threadfall. He’s still learning how to coordinate his movements with the rest of the new riders, practicing careful acrobatics and learning the flow of flames, the way the movement of steady wingbeats catches the air into unexpected eddies and blows warmth back over the riders’ faces. Rogue hasn’t even learned how to jump  _between_  -- none of the riders from his clutch have, yet -- but just because they haven’t been taught doesn’t mean the dragons don’t instinctively know how.

Rogue doesn’t see what happens, only hears later about an accidental jump and a panicked burst of flame as the dragon reemerged in a cluster of riders. If he had seen he might have had enough warning to do something about it, or maybe Skiadrum could have reacted in time. But he’s looking down at the bag of firestone at his knee, and Skiadrum is humming pleasure at the rush of wind over them, when the sound in the back of Rogue’s head breaks off into a wordless exclamation of panic and they turn so sharply Rogue’s weight is entirely hanging from his harness for a moment. There’s a rush of heat, like the warmth of the blown-back flames but climbing higher immediately, painful at the soles of Rogue’s feet, and there’s a greater hurt, agony so sharp Rogue’s screaming aloud before he realizes it’s not  _his_  skin that is blistering under dragonflame but Skiadrum’s.

The older riders manage to get him out of his harness before Skiadrum goes. Rogue at least gets that much, the painfully weak bump of a scaly head against his shoulder and the whirl of sorrow in huge eyes, the  _sorry_  echoing in his head as Skiadrum shuts his eyes and goes  _between_  without him. He’s told later, when he’s lying in the hospital wing and staring blankly at the ceiling, that the other new rider caught in the accidental blast wasn’t so lucky. His harness had been burned clear through, his fall only stopped by the quick intervention of one of the adult dragons.  _His_  dragon had flickered out of the sky as soon as Sting was in free-fall, before the rider had any chance to even process what was happening, before he had the chance to say any kind of a goodbye.

Rogue isn’t sure that’s not a mercy. For days Skiadrum’s eyes are all he can see when he shuts his own, the color in his memory the brightest thing in his life. If he has to fall into shadow, he thinks it might have been easier to do without having the memory of light deepening the gloom. But that’s just his perspective, the despairing belief that  _anything_  else would be better. When he and Sting are officially introduced -- “It’s better to have someone to live for,” the older rider tells them, “better that you have each other” -- Rogue can see the mark of jealousy for his goodbye in the frown at the blond’s mouth the same as he can feel his own for the other’s quicker loss burning behind his eyes.

Still. It’s the warmest thing he’s felt since Skiadrum dropped out of his life, and even if it’s just the faint flicker of irritation it’s something, and none of the other riders want anything to do with either of them. They try to be polite, the older ones more than the younger, but Rogue can see the selfish fear of loss in the way they lean away from the two of them, and Sting hisses at their pity, and it’s not long at all before they’re left exclusively to each other.

Rogue didn’t expect bonding with the other rider -- former rider -- to be as easy as it is. His ability to interact easily has never developed, and the connection of shared delight he used to have with all the other dragonriders is shattered irreparably along with his faith in the future. But shared loss is a bond of its own, and even if Sting’s choked tears late at night are no comfort at least Rogue has the sound of the other’s crying to express the silent ache of his own pain settling permanently into his bones.

They don’t touch each other, not voluntarily. After Skiadrum Rogue feels like other people’s touch burns him, like maybe the void in his life is echoing with the chill cold of  _between_  from the other end of the broken connection. Sometimes Sting sits too close, misjudges his distance or moves too fast so their elbows bump together or there’s a moment of contact at their knee, and they both jump apart, Sting flinching just as badly from the chill of Rogue’s skin as Rogue cringes from his heat. Still, it’s a sort of comfort, to be in constant orbit with another individual in a sea of pairs, and even if they never touch the reassuring familiarity of Sting’s presence is enough for Rogue to get up each morning, even if he can’t be sure about the future beyond tomorrow.

Left to his own devices, Rogue wouldn’t so much as stir from their shared bedroom, much less leave the Weyr entirely. But Sting is always jittery, anxious with excessive energy even though nothing seems to satisfy him, and being with him is better than being alone. On a day free of Threadfall when the blond heads for the sunshine of the outdoors, Rogue is the one to slow him down long enough to collect a handful of food, strips of dried meat that maybe they’ll bother to eat, this time. He tells himself as much, anyway, although he doesn’t believe his own thoughts anymore, and no sooner has he dropped the strips into his pocket than he forgets about them entirely.

The sunlight is blinding, the cloud cover overhead enough to keep them shaded from direct light but paradoxically making the light’s glare worse. Rogue has to squint to see, can feel his eyes watering with pain instead of emotion for once, and Sting growls wordless protest before angling a hand over his face and walking faster as if they have anywhere at all to go. They’re not even taking a new route; Rogue knows where they’re headed well before he can hear the sound of the ocean lapping at the sand, knows where Sting always goes without any discussion. Sometimes the blond even holds still, stands still at the water’s edge to stare out into the distance like he’ll see his way back to the past if he waits long enough. Rogue is never sure, until they get down the sloping hill to the sandy beach, which way it will go, the still watching or the angry anxiety of motion up and down the beach.

This time Sting hesitates as his feet press patterns into the sand. Rogue looks at his shoulders, rather than at his face; it’s easier to see the uncertainty in the blond’s body than it is to see much of anything besides the everpresent sadness in his features. The fabric of his jacket shifts, angles like he’s settling his weight, and Rogue is just about to drop to sit arm’s length away when unfamiliar tension floods the other’s body.

“What’s that?” Rogue’s never heard Sting sound like that, like he’s  _interested_  in something beyond mild annoyance. It’s enough to bring his gaze up to the blond’s face so he catches a glimpse of something almost like light in the other’s lifeless blue eyes. “Over there.”

Rogue follows where Sting is pointing, more obedient to the gesture than actually interested. Then he sees the motion, flickering motes in the air, and Sting’s excitement jumps contagious-quick into his veins.

“Fire lizards,” he says, low and shocked, and Sting glances at him with that focus still in his eyes. Rogue stares back for a moment, feeling his heartbeat humming in his throat; then they move as one, without saying anything at all before they drop into a skidding run across the sand.

It’s farther away than it looks, and neither of them are used to any sort of physical exertion anymore. By the time they are close enough to make out the shine of individual wings both Sting and Rogue are breathless, Rogue gasping for air and Sting panting like he’s on the verge of collapse. The fire lizards rise up into the sky as they draw closer, falling out of sight as they ascend; with a little distance Rogue can almost imagine they’re dragons seen at some impossible distance, can remember what it felt like to lift into the air like that himself.

“Rogue,” Sting says. The sound of his name in Sting’s voice is startling, shocking enough that Rogue drops his gaze immediately to where the blond is dropping to a knee and sinking his fingers into the sand. “Look.”

Under Sting’s fingers the particles slide away, baring the curve of an eggshell half-buried in the sand. Rogue’s breath catches, his first impulse flinching pain from what he assumes to be a lifeless shell; then the egg shifts, wiggles like it’s being pushed, and Rogue’s on his knees as fast as Sting, reaching out without thinking to shove the blond’s hands away.

“Don’t touch it!” he snaps, and they both go still. Rogue’s holding his breath; from the lack of sound Sting is too, both of them waiting in desperate anticipation before the shell rocks again, wholly free of an outside force this time.

“Oh my god,” Rogue says, and lets Sting’s wrist go. His fingers are burning with the familiar ache of contact but he doesn’t have time to think about that; all the adrenaline he hasn’t felt in weeks is burning through him, making his hands tremble visibly while he drags his fingers through the sand and shell remnants, digging until he has a soft heap of upturned sand and shells and another tiny egg in the palm of his hand. It’s blistering warm and it’s shaking too, like it’s humming from the inside in time with Rogue’s fluttering heartbeat. Sting is crouched low over his egg, so near the short strands of his hair are nearly touching the shell.

“What happened?” Rogue asks without looking away from the movement of the egg in his hands.

He can just see Sting shake his head. “Dunno. Maybe they just hatched late?”

“Mm.” Rogue’s egg is going slower, like maybe it’s not going to crack after all, and he can’t breathe at all. “Sting, what are --”

There’s a crack, a shattering noise, and Rogue thinks for a moment it’s the egg in his fingers. But there’s no sign of change, and Sting is chirping in delight, and when Rogue looks up there’s a tiny bronze head against Sting’s finger, a pair of damp-heavy wings emerging from the shell.

“Oh my god,” he says, and Sting is  _smiling_ , Rogue can see the shine of sunlight off the white of his teeth. He’s never seen Sting smile, before.

“Food,” the blond says as the fire lizard mewls before breaking in a high screech of want. “Food, Rogue, shit, don’t you have that meat?”

“Ah.” Rogue fumbles the strips as he tries to pull them out, drops half to the sand, but the baby lizard is on them without hesitation, snapping at the meat before Sting has snatched up a piece to induce the hatchling to feed from his fingers. He’s still smiling, he’s starting to laugh, and Rogue has a flicker of loneliness watching his face, a breath to feel the shadows coming back in for him.

Then there’s a burst of movement against his palms, the egg he’s holding rocks over on its side completely, and Rogue takes a sharp breath as a curled blue shape topples out into his hold before unwinding into a fire lizard.

“Here.” Sting’s holding out a strip of the meat, though he’s still staring at his own lizard and continuing to proffer food with his other hand. Rogue takes it without even bothering with thanks, offers it to the tiny creature in his hand before it has time to more than whine and blink. Its movements are slower than the others, a little more hesitant, but Rogue keeps the food steady while his hatchling determines that the best course of action may in fact be to eat.

The strips disappear at an alarming rate. By the time the last has been devoured Sting’s hatchling is chirping in desire for more but without the agonized plea of starvation it started with, and Rogue’s is maneuvering up the fabric of his sleeve to explore the territory of his shoulder. It’s only then that Rogue lifts his gaze to meet Sting’s wide blue eyes, to see the smile still sparkling at his lips. The blond reaches out with his free hand, the one not currently cradling a peeping hatchling, brushes his fingers against Rogue’s lower lip, and Rogue doesn’t think to flinch away.

“You’re smiling,” Sting says, and Rogue realizes he is, his mouth fitting to the forgotten shape like it had been minutes instead of hours since the last time. “You look nice smiling.”

Rogue doesn’t say thank you. But his skin is flushing warm, like it’s remembering what it is to be alive, and the sparkle in Sting’s eyes says the blond understands the unspoken sentiment. When they stand it’s without speaking, they turn back towards the Weyr and the promise of food for their hatchlings without discussion. But when their hands brush together neither of them cringe away, and when Sting fits his fingers in against Rogue’s Rogue tightens his grip into the reassurance of a gentle squeeze, and the clouds are clearing off to let the sun touch the cool of his skin again.


End file.
